I just don’t think I’m that interesting. I don’t think what I have to say is that interesting. To hear me go blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I mean, who… cares? James Gandolfini
(Thanks beeps and Jas for the 3 quotes 3 days nomination.) I wrote this post while my WiFi was down, so it’s not a snapshot of now.
This motherfucking disorder… I had two really good days this week; they felt good without feeling too good. I thought foolishly, hey this might last a while, but I thought it too loud and the bastard bipolar heard me. Splat and I hit the tarmac like Chris Rock’s character’s fall from grace in ‘Dogma’, and it got worse from there (I think I then turned into Viggo Mortensen’s character in ‘The Road’). 6km on the beach helped, but only temporarily and then it all rushed in again. I’m very tired of the howling abyss inside me. I’m tired of saying don’t worry I’ll be fine when someone’s asked 85739 times for the reasons I’m so down. I’m tired of saying I’m okay really when someone begins to fret, because there’s nothing they can do. I’m tired of saying yes when someone tells me I’ll be fine, it’ll be fine, it will all be fine. It’s not fine. Why do you think you’re feeling this way? Because I’m bi-fucking-polar, that’s why. Why is a person with a broken leg’s leg sore? I’m down because my baseline is depression, because of 40 years of untreated bipolar, because trauma fucked me up as a toddler and very little has been alright since. Muggles can be tiresome sometimes; I don’t say it’ll be okay because it’s true, I say it so they’ll stop looking like rabbits in headlights.
I woke with the howling abyss at full power and was sitting on the couch weeping when douchebag neighbour called from outside hello I’ve just come to drop something off. The something was a bird that flew into her glass door and got stunned. I told her to take it to a woman who I knew would actively enjoy clucking over it until it recovered. Douchebag had already gone into rabbit in headlights mode; it’s what she does. She asked me what was wrong, I said bipolar is wrong. She said sweetie, please… and began to cry. I said, sweetie what? And what’s wrong? Sweetie please means stop doing that. I told her I hated being alive one day and she left in a tizz saying, I can’t hear this. Her daughter had asked her to give them and her ex husband a life to her child’s birthday party, which was held elsewhere (another event I couldn’t go to because douchebag’s man is allergic to lesbians). Douchebag has major issues with her ex (who by the way, broke his hip about a month ago) and so she had a cadenza about it. Naturally enough, she then had a fight with her daughter. It’s just everything, she said, through the tears and then she asked the traditional, obligatory, time honoured and very fucking annoying question that well-intentioned people ask in times of crisis, are you eating? Then she left saying it’s nothing compared with what you’re going through. I have to sort the stuff I need her for so that I don’t need her for them, because fuck this with one of morgue’s sporks marinated in syphilis. Twice.
Normal and prn meds down my throat, I went to sleep and had one of those psychological aerobics dreams. To cut a long and very tedious retelling short, everybody in it shrugged off my pleas, and I yelled, I just want someone to stand next to me, that’s all! Also in the dream, I was frustrated at not being able to find words better than shoulder to shoulder to clarify what I wanted. I woke to discover that the WiFi being down all week due to the weather granted me an extension all of my very own in the form of a fault in my system. The guy who can sort it is 300km away for the weekend. No consolation online then. The friend whose mercy I’d usually fling myself upon has guests for the weekend and I can’t cope with asking friends who live further away if they can help, even though they would. I can’t cope with going to the local shop to buy three tons of chocolate either. I did manage to wash up, which is a miracle, I don’t even want to think about how long the kitchen sink-o-meter has been pointing at institutionalise her right now.
Of course bipolar depression kicks my arse towards grieving my mother and I still grieve hard anyway. Depression takes the downhill run to melancholic depression, which as you know, is emotional quicksand. Quicksad? Fuck puns, but at least they’re a sign that I haven’t been sucked right to the bottom of it all. The absolute nadir is when my sense of humour escapes me completely; it’s a long way down and I either blog research posts or not at all then. Thank fuck I can take another prn or two now; I’ll go and read and try to sleep. The kitchen sink is empty, which means the kitchen sink-o-meter is at full and as long as we don’t take a reading from the laundry-o-meter, I’m showing good results.